


Unfinished Business

by leiascully



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-21
Updated: 2007-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the crash, as he was watching himself be loaded into the ambulance by fussy paramedics, House found himself thinking of Cuddy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unfinished Business

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: N/A  
> A/N: [**lissie_pissie**](http://lissie-pissie.livejournal.com/) gave me this prompt: _"i really miss your hair in my face, and the way your innocence tastes"_. Ghostporn really? said [**queenzulu**](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/). Happy Smut Tuesday! Happy year of Smut Tuesdays!  
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

After the crash, as he was watching himself be loaded into the ambulance by fussy paramedics, House found himself thinking of Cuddy. Rather, haunted by Cuddy, which was odd: he was the one who was dead, and yet there she was, giving him that no-nonsense look.

"I really can't do clinic duty," he told her, doing his best to be obnoxious. "Beyond the veil and all that. I hope the afterlife has General Hospital this time."

His legendary powers to annoy must have lost some of their potency when he stopped breathing. She was just looking at him, her face softening. Christmas, he thought. Merry Christmas, Doctor House. Doctor Wilson.

Wilson. By rights it ought to be Wilson nagging him. It was Wilson he'd lived with for the last five years, Wilson who'd finally coaxed him into pain therapy, Wilson he'd wound up kissing one New Year's like a cliché out of some stupid movie. It wasn't fair that it wasn't Wilson, he thought, scowling at the immaterial Cuddy, but then, he'd hardly ever been fair to Wilson while they were alive. Wishing didn't make it right and it never had. Wilson would be at the hospital, hoarding his grief, wasting away. So now he was dead, and Cuddy was smiling at him, and that was what he had to go on. The ambulance screamed down the parkway and he drifted after it, casting a forlorn eye over the remains of his bike. Cuddy click-clacked her way along through the air beside him. It was indecent how reasonable she was making all of this seem.

"What do you want?" he asked. "Didn't you devil me enough while I was alive?"

"House," she said, and her voice was as low and rich and melodious as the day he'd met her, "you're an idiot."

"Be that as it may," he said, peering back at the crash site, "I'm roadkill now and you're still here. Why are you still here?"

"I'm always here," she said.

"Not again," he grumbled. "What do you want?"

"I'm your memory," she said. "What do _you_ want?"

"Wilson," he said automatically.

"Wilson doesn't know?"

"Why do you know?"

She shrugged. "Apparently you believe that I have some sort of fantastic women's intuition. Far be it from me to discern the mad workings of your twisted mind."

"I'm dead," he said, experimenting with the words. They lay lightly on his tongue. It wasn't like he'd expected it to be. It wasn't like last time, the flashes of insight and the heaviness of symbolism.

"You're dead," she agreed.

"For real this time."

"You don't see me standing around with paddles, do you?" she said dryly.

"Thanks for that," he said. "Last time. For bringing me back."

She tilted her head a little. "You had to be dead to say it?"

"You know," he said, uncomfortable, trying to grab the top of a tree as they sailed past. His fingers went through the branches. "Why aren't you Wilson?"

"Maybe we have more unresolved issues," she suggested. "Did you say goodbye when you left?"

House rolled onto his back, thinking of that last kiss. He'd pressed Wilson to the wall, mussed his hair and shirt so that the patients would know something was going on. Tidy Wilson, disheveled by love. It had been as good a goodbye as any, he supposed. "Mostly," he said, "but it still shouldn't be you."

She sighed. "I've got other things to do too, House. I'm here because you wanted me here."

"Doesn't make any sense," he said.

She stopped walking and caught him by the wrist. Her fingers were warm, and unlike the tree, didn't waft through his too too insubstantial flesh. "You brought me here, House. Try to remember why." He tried to think, but couldn't concentrate on anything but the strangely comforting heat of her palm around his wrist, the pulse beating where her thumb pressed into his bone. The rhythm and the warmth spread through him, the steady thud thud thud thud deepening until he was running, his feet making the sound and the jar of impact pounding through his body. It was summer. He was on the trail by the river, wearing shorts and sunglasses and sneakers. The light glinted off the water as the crew team went past, the coxswain's shouted instructions indistinct through the megaphone. It smelled like sun and water and growing things. He was sweating, half a breeze not enough to leaven the ambient sultriness of late August, and Cuddy was running beside him, her breathing fast but easy. Her sneakers made a pat pat sound: she always had been light on her feet. Her thin shirt was damp with sweat, and loose strands from her ponytail curled at the back of her neck.

"Ready to head in?" she asked.

"Tired already?"

"I could match you mile for mile, old man," she panted, and sprinted ahead just to prove it. He let her lead for a minute or so and then caught up, relishing the burn in his calves and quads. The sun was hot on his bare chest. He grabbed her around the stomach and they tumbled onto the lawn, laughing.

"You really are a son of a bitch, you know?" she said, pulling at a grass stain on her white tank.

"I know," he said comfortably, pillowing his head on his arms.

"Remember when this actually happened?" she said a little wistfully, wrapping her forearms around her knees and looking out over the river.

"I don't remember us being this young," he said. "Or this happy."

She looked at him. Her eyes were bluer than the sky; it was eerie to watch her pupils change in the sunlight. "We were, once upon a time. Or I was. You never were. The tricks that memory plays."

"I was happy," he argued.

"You were combative," she said, a one-sided smile curving her mouth.

"That professor was a jackass," he muttered. He watched the scudding clouds. They made cool patches of half-shadow as they passed over him. "Why wouldn't I be happy? Summer break, what there was of it. A good run. The prospect of a shower and some sex."

"You always need something to push up against. That's when you're happy."

"And today that's you," he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. She didn't respond and he sat up. "Come on, Cuddy. You do the same thing."

"Unfinished business," she said. "Race you back."

Before he could get up, she had taken off down the path. He rolled to his feet and loped after her, taking it easy, enjoying the day and the girls sunbathing on the lawns with their faces hidden behind their arms. He imagined what each one would look like if she turned over. It made for a pleasant half-hour. Cuddy was lounging against his door when he got to the apartment.

"Long time no see," she said.

"Cheater," he said. "I thought you were the good girl."

"I take what I can get," she said significantly, pushing herself off the doorframe as he unlocked the apartment. He was kissing her before the door even closed. She threw her arms around his neck, her skin just as damp and sticky as his. He peeled her shirt up and broke away from her to tug it over her head. She wriggled out of her sports bra, and he lunged for her neck, kissing and nipping a trail down her carotid artery to her breasts, sucking at a nipple to make her moan. She dug her nails into his back and tried to pull away; he sucked harder and then let go.

"Shower," she commanded.

"You're such a princess," he complained.

"Showers involve nudity," she reminded him, and he growled and nudged her toward the bathroom. He twisted the water on while she shed her shorts and sneakers and coaxed him out of his, and they stepped under the spray together. It wasn't quite warm; she gasped and he pressed his body against hers. The cool water pounded down on their hot skin. He kissed her and tasted salt as she reached behind him for the bar of soap and lathered his back. He slid his hand between her legs as her fingers massaged the soap over his shoulders, and she hummed and rubbed herself against him.

"_This_ really was this good," he said.

"Yeah," she said, leaning back a little to look at him. "It was." The clean reek of Irish Spring was strong in his nostrils.

"We were good together," he said. "I forget that."

"We were good together until we weren't," she said. "You just prefer to remember the bad times."

"Made life easier," he said.

"Probably better that way," she said. "We always needed to fight, you and I. It would have gotten bad."

"You were too tough to give up on me." He rubbed his thumb over her clit, watching her pupils dilate. Her fingertips tensed and dug into his trapezius. The pressure was delicious and the water had warmed. Between the steam and her hands, he was almost putty.

"You needed the yielding now and then," she said. "That's why it was Wilson instead of me. Someone who'd be stubborn enough to change things instead of stubborn enough to cling to what was."

"It took dying to put me in therapy and the analyst is a figment of my imagination," he said to himself. "What a nutjob."

"Ah, House," she said affectionately. "Shut up."

He bent to kiss her, his mouth sliding over hers as she hooked her calf around his. They were both slick with suds. Her hair was loose and he reached for the shampoo and rubbed it into her scalp with one hand, the other still moving between her legs. She pushed her body up against his, tilting her head back under the spray. He sloshed water over her head to rinse the shampoo away.

"Come on, Lise, where's that famous multitasking?" he hissed into her ear, twisting his fingers, and she shuddered against him as her muscles clenched.

"Right there," she sighed. "That was my stealth mode."

"Huh," he said, sliding his fingers out. "That's not how I remember it."

"Because I was doing this," she said, running her hands down his sides as she knelt. He put one hand on the top of her head and one on the wall of the shower to steady himself as she took his erection into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around his head and dipped into the slit and his hips jerked. Her mouth was hotter than the water or the sunburn forming on his shoulders. He was too close for comfort after all the fantasies and the run and he urged her back up, kissing her again.

"Let's take care of business," he said, and they washed each other, hands everywhere with the freshness of soap and shampoo. He dialed the water back to cold and they stood under the icy spray, yelping, and then leaped out and toweled each other off briskly. His shoulders were definitely going to be burned, and his chest stung too, but it was worth it. He picked her up, towel and all, and dropped her on the bed. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him down on top of her. He lay there for a long moment, enjoying the cushion of her breasts, and then rolled half off and reached for a condom.

"It would have been weird to have a kid together," she said, propped up on one elbow as she watched him smooth the latex over his cock.

"Might have been good," he said. "There were days I wished I'd given you that chance."

"Bygones," she said dismissively, and pulled him down again. He kissed her, his hand working down her body to her thighs, guiding himself to her opening. She spread her legs for him, welcoming him, and he pushed in, grunting.

"Christ," he said, "was it really like this?"

"Shut up," she said. "I want to enjoy this, rose-tinted or not."

He didn't say a word, just busied his mouth with kissing her. Her lips were soft and her mouth was hot and wet. She had one arm around his neck and one around his waist and he pulled her leg up over his hip. He was all wrapped up in her, just like summertime, all the goodness and warmth of it tingling through him. She held herself tight around him. Her body arched under his and her hips rocked up against his thrusts. It was perfect. The air conditioner kicked on and blew a gust of chilly air over them; his back prickled into gooseflesh and he thrust harder, seeking solace in the heat of her core.

"This," he said.

"Us," she said.

"Oh," he said. She ground her hips against him and her heel dug into the back of his thigh as her muscles clenched. He fucked her through the orgasm, opening his eyes to watch her face, the combined heat of them coalescing just behind his balls as they tensed. She settled back into the pillows, gasping, urging him on with her heel and her hands, and he thrust once, twice, three times, and then he was rushing through the universe as the pleasure hit him. He came to with his face pressed into her shoulder and her fingertips dancing at the base of his neck.

"Mmmph," he said, and rolled off her, reached for a tissue. He cleaned up and flopped down on the bed, pulling her to him. She turned her head and her hair flipped over his face. He didn't bother to brush it away, just amused himself with the way the strands puffed away with his breath and then settled back over his lips. "Afternoon delight is such an apt phrase."

"Unfinished business," she yawned, and he kissed her forehead.

"I'm finished."

"Nope," she said. "Just a temporary comfort until I do an idiotic thing like get in a road accident."

"Given your administrative flair, I'm guessing your death is more likely to be someone else's fault," he said. "And you the not-so-innocent victim."

"Well, let that be a comfort to you as you fade into nothingness," she said sarcastically.

"Is this really it?" he asked.

She propped herself up and leaned over his chest. "It's what you want it to be, House. It's what you've got left."

He yawned, his eyelids heavy. "Am I going to wake up?"

"It's not for me to say," she said. "All I have is now."

"Deep philosophy," he muttered, dragging the blanket over them. "Tell Wilson I went out with a smile on my face."

"I'm not magic," she said.

"You'll manage," he said, blinking. Her eyes were that eerie blue again: summer twilight, the hour of fireflies and new mists. He was sinking fast into the softness of it: the sweet smell of grass, the melodic scrape of cicadas, the comforting weight of her. Then there was a bright light, and then there was nothing.


End file.
